Oceans and Dolphins

I rode the bus yesterday, enjoying the air-conditioned ride on the steamy afternoon. I was distracted from thoughts of things to do when I got home by three young women sitting in front. One of them, let’s call her Leader, was telling her seatmate about campus.

“There’s a really good Thai place about 3 blocks away,” she said confidently and I frowned – I thought that place closed. I like Thai food – why am I not going there? I lost track of the conversation about shops and restaurants as I groused over my lack of panang curry, but tuned in again when Leader looked across the aisle to Reader.

“What’s your book?” Leader asked and Reader glanced up inquisitively. Leader repeated the question and I decided the heavy accents might mean these folks were international students here for a summer program. Neat, I decided. Then I offered a quick hope that they all liked heat and humidity. Freaking South. Reader finally showed Leader the cover of her book – it was a Sweet Valley High novel – and Leader chuckled.

“High school book!” she laughed loudly and I frowned darkly at the judgment. I personally read romance novels for fun, and I take umbrage at those who think they’re somehow better than me for being entertained by more intellectual texts. I love to read and tend toward stories I enjoy. There’s nothing wrong with that! Stupid Leader shouldn’t make Reader feel ridiculed for reading something fun! Plus, if the alternative is talking to a twit like you, I decided with a glare at Leader, I’d read the manual for the bus! (I was in a bit of a mood yesterday. Er, lately. Something about the heat bugs me.)

Leader, unaware of my squinting glare, turned her attention to Seatmate, who unwisely mentioned she’d been waitlisted for the program and was very pleased to be here.

“I wasn’t waitlisted,” Leader said with a toss of her hair. “I can’t believe someone would turn down a spot though – you’re really lucky you got in.” I raised my eyebrows, shook my head and silently called her a name.

We all exited the bus at the same stop and I wandered toward my car while noticing Leader was opening the doors to her own vehicle. It’s a good thing you drive, I thought unkindly. Because otherwise you suck.

I recalled, as I settled in my car and turned the air all the way up, my own undergrad research experience. I applied to a small program in New England, I recalled. They were doing oceanic research and there was a cottage near the water where all the summer students lived together. They were provided bicycles to ride to the labs and took boats far into the Atlantic at least three times a week. There was a single Physics spot – the other dozen or so positions were filled by biology, chemistry and geology candidates from around the world – and I dreamed of getting it. I’d always been drawn to the east coast – the charm and history and shorelines – and carefully filled out my application, but wrote it off as a long shot.

The more likely choice, I thought as I piled up brochures and printed pages from larger schools with bigger summer research programs, was a public school near home. I had one in mind and considered the 40 or so openings in the engineering school and hoped hard that I would get one of them. I liked the campus – was already considering it for graduate study in some yet-to-be-determined field – and was thrilled to take a phone call with a distinguished professor who offered me an 8-week spot in his lab through the program. I’d live in the dorm near the lake, he told me, and come to his lab on the fifth floor to do work that straddled materials science and physics. He had two grad students working through the summer and was thinking of hiring an additional summer student. They had lab meetings every day at noon.

I told him I would be there and, thrilled, told anyone who would listen of my good fortune.

Then New England called. And I thought achingly of the boat and bicycles, of the house near the water with a dozen other students. Of models and collaborations with geologists and chemists to learn about magical ocean phenomena – the mysteries of the deep! Perhaps I’d even see a dolphin! The 100 or so days I could spend there dangled before me – an offer I hadn’t at all expected to get from a man I still remember as being young and passionate and wonderful via our phone and email exchanges. So I made lists and obsessed and talked to people.

That summer, I headed north rather than northeast. I moved my belongings into a dorm room near a lake rather than a house near the ocean. And I learned a great deal and met some cool people. I was likely a bit too arrogant – I still thought myself rather brilliant in college (I’ve since been cured of that.) – but my future remained filled with possibilities. And anything seemed figure-out-able given enough data. I’d chosen safety over adventure, sure, but everything worked out.

My drug company contact called on Friday. We talked casually about my future plans – I mentioned the Industry job and how I was planning to leave academic research in the near future – and, to my utter shock, she said she hoped I’d consider a job with them.

I'll briefly review my dealings with drug company (Please see the end of that post for additional detail.) for those of you who haven't been following my every word for the past year or so. Boss asked me to help with this project because a grad student was screwing it up. I had time (and had asked for something to do) so I happily learned how to handle the various tasks. Said tasks included loading data from CDs, burning data to CDs, labeling files and keeping lists of what was done and needed to be done. Then – for a super-challenge – sometimes I'd meet with a very important MD and show her files. And type in the numbers she said to a spreadsheet. Or make a presentation of the relevant findings. Then I'd deal with scheduling emails and quality checks and the like. Had I been busy, it would have been awful. But I had the time and didn't mind doing it, so life was good.

Then there was the whole thing about not getting credit for any of this work. And while I'm willing to admit it wasn't hard, I also wasn't doing it for fun. I was spending hours of my life each week fielding phone calls and questions, waiting for data to transfer, looking up odd bits of information that might someday be relevant. So I told drug company contact I wanted an authorship on the eventual paper. She said no, explained the situation, VIMD firmly said I would be granted an authorship, I refused to do more work until drug company gave me what I wanted. They finally said OK. At which point, I uncrossed my arms, stopped pouting and promptly handled the work again.

If you went back and referenced those posts, you'd see that I felt badly for making those demands. But I was angry and got aggressive and dug in my heels. They could pay me or give me an authorship, but I was not working for nothing. I was rather petulant about my requests when they were denied and used every email reply as an opportunity to remind them that any requested work that I didn't get credit for was pretty low priority. In short, I was not very nice. So I assumed they didn't like me so much.

“Wow,” I said after she explained the position and how it opened, “I’m…” Don’t say ‘surprised,’ I told myself firmly and decided on, “so flattered!”

The problem is that – were I to describe an absolutely perfect job for myself – this would be it. All the training I’ve received, all the priorities I have, everything I think is good and important about the research I do – this job would allow me to use and enjoy and deal with that work. I didn’t even see postings of jobs like this, having some idea that they were so rare and coveted that you had to know someone to get invited to interview. But now I did know someone! And rather than thinking me lame and pouty for demanding authorship and being clear about what I wanted, she admired my attitude. She liked that I answered emails promptly and was clear about timelines. She enjoyed that I understood the work at a high level but wasn’t too good for menial tasks. And – miracle of miracles – I might be able to get hired to do this.

“We reviewed your CV,” she said yesterday when we spoke again, speaking of herself and her boss – a man I think is brilliant and am thrilled has viewed my qualifications at all. “We think you’d be very happy here and we’re trying to rush HR to get you an interview before you have to sign anything for Industry. Try hard to stall them when they send you a contract. We think you’d be happier doing this work,” she confided and I had to nod in agreement. The job is this sparkling bit of perfection for me. “So just give us a chance to get things in order – we’re very interested in you. And I think you’d like California – it’s beautiful out here.”

And there’s the sticking point, I thought with a wince. I’ve told my parents I’m coming home. I’m going to live within easy driving distance. See my nieces more often. Work at a huge company so they feel relieved and secure in my future. So I feel more secure too – I want stability and room to get promoted, opportunities to learn and grow and meet people. The job I've been offered already is an amazing one – I worked for months and months to get it and am thrilled that they want me. That it was the only offer I had and therefore easy to joyously accept was bonus.

Now I’m conflicted, thinking of oceans and dolphins again. Yet as I put things into boxes and prepare to move north at the beginning of next month, I know it’ll be like that summer research program. I can’t, I think not without some degree of sadness. It’s too far away, too scary, the unknowns too numerous. And as perfectly wonderful as it sounds, I tend toward safety – where the places seem familiar and home is just a few hours away. But until I finally tell my drug company contact that courting me is rather useless – and I will do that soon, I promise – I’ll think longingly of research tailored to my interests and training, of sunny beaches and astronomically expensive homes, and maybe a stray dolphin or two.